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Bench jockeys heckled him from across the diamond and shirtsleeved kibitzers shouted advice from the stands, but the burly, ruddy man alongside the Cincinnati bat rack gave no sign that he heard. The center-field Scoreboard reminded him that he was a front runner in a National League pennant race so close that the loss of a single game might mean the difference between first place and fourth, but beyond pawing abstractedly at his red-sleeved uniform shirt, he appeared unmoved. All week long, alone in the shouting crowd with his furious concentration, the Redlegs' Manager George Robert ("Birdie") Tebbetts, 44, was busy outguessing the opposition, calling the shots for his own club and cocking his narrowed, china-blue eyes at the umpires. For a man with so much on his mind, Birdie seemed uncommonly cool and calm.
Birdie Tebbetts may have looked relaxed, but he was simmering inside with the problems, hunches, gambles and indecisions of a competitor who hates to be outguessed, hates even more to lose. He remained squatly in his corner of the bench—not because he was calm but because he was a catcher. As a catcher, he had learned to do his thinking in a crouch. It is a posture that seems to hone the intellect. For catchers, once they have mastered the mask, chest pads and other "tools of ignorance," seem to make the grade as big-league managers almost as consistently as big-time businessmen make the team on Republican Cabinets. The bright tradition runs way back to the late Connie Mack and Roger Bresnahan. And from Mr. Mack on through Gabby Street, Mickey Cochrane and Al Lopez, few major-league catchers-turned-manager have matched the swift success of George Robert Tebbetts.
The Redlegs were the sad sacks of the second division when Birdie took them over in 1954; by 1956 they had surprised themselves and come within two games of stealing the pennant. The big difference was Birdie. Sportswriters named him "Manager of the Year," but Cincinnati ball fans amended that, hailed him as "best manager in the majors."
This year the Redlegs are playing like men who really believe they can win—and once more the difference is Birdie. Now, like their manager, the Redlegs are convinced that there is nothing worse in life than losing. So they have bounced back from a staggering last-place start. They have made do without the services of Slugger Ted Kluszewski, whose injured back has turned him into a defensive drawback around first base and a spottv performer at the plate. Slowly and steadily they have clawed their way out ox recurrent slumps, and scrambled back toward the lead where they are sure they belong.